Contentment
by Skye Aerrow
Summary: Amy enlists the Doctor's help in picking some flowers for a centerpiece. Implied Doctor/Rose.


Contentment

"What do you think about roses for the table?"

He felt a pressing sadness at the mention of her name. An oppressive weight settled on his chest, and he blinked stupidly at his former companion, unable to say or do anything in response to her question. Such a simple question, yet it had unnerved him. So easy to answer, yet he couldn't speak.

Amy Pond stood at the foot of the front steps with her hands on her hips. It was late afternoon—almost time for tea—and a year and a half had gone by since their last get-together. The waning sunlight caught the highlights in her brilliant hair and shadowed her face as her brow furrowed. "Doctor," she said, "are you feeling all right?"

"Of course," he answered. "I'm always all right." The state of his being was the one thing he was constantly untrue about. He'd even lied to Donna all those days ago—the one human he trusted more than himself.

Besides _her, _of course.

And the Doctor wasn't sure he could trust _her _anymore. She was no longer physically present, but he still felt her presence sometimes. In those moments, he'd glance out of the corner of his eye, hoping to glimpse the impossible—he was always disappointed.

And the sound of her name out of context was enough to stop his hearts.

The Doctor swallowed the lump in his throat. He opened his mouth to speak.

Rory Pond poked his head out of the front door of the townhouse, beaming like a proud parent. The smell of roasting chicken wafted out from inside, flooding the street with temptation. "Tea is almost ready. Are you two about finished?"

The Doctor's eyes shifted between Rory and the flower bed. "We are very nearly finished."

"We'll be in soon," said Amy.

Rory paused in the doorway for a moment. "We don't have to have a centerpiece. It's just the three of us," he added. "I'm not a fan of flowers, really, either, you know."

But Amy wasn't listening. She stooped at the edge of the garden plot and plucked some lilies from the ground. They were a crisp white and sweetly fragrant to the Doctor's heightened senses. "Never mind the roses. Lilies suit the table better." She brushed the dirt off her pants and passed the flowers on to Rory, who took them as reluctantly as though they were on fire. "Could you put these in some water? We'll be just another minute."

Rory's gaze flickered over the Doctor, who was studying the pavement as though it had come alive and was speaking to him in an alien tongue. Then, he nodded. "Take your time." He went into the house with the flowers and pulled the door closed behind him. It clicked softly as it shut, and the sound was enveloped by silence.

Amy threw her arms around the Doctor's neck before he looked up from the ground. Instinctively, he returned the embrace, burying his face into her neck. It had been too long since someone had hugged him—too long since he'd been comforted without comforting someone else.

"I love you," Amy said, "and I know she loved you, too."

The Doctor exhaled, closing his eyes. "Amelia Pond…"

She kissed him on the cheek and pulled away from the embrace. Her absence was an amputation—something that disturbed him for having disappeared so quickly. Notes of vanilla from her perfume lingered in the air after she stepped away. He kept his eyes closed and inhaled, and the familiar scent helped sooth his aching chest.

The sunlight suddenly vanished, and the Doctor's eyes flew open. Amy was standing in front of him with a red rose in her hand. The crimson bloom was a stark contrast to her creamy skin. Before he could stop himself, he was stroking the velvety petals, running his fingers over the leaves and even the thorns. They pricked his skin, but he was numb.

_A rose._

He thought of her again—every blessed thing about her. Pink and yellow, dazzling smile, warm brown eyes, the way she said his name as thought it were the best sound in the galaxy—

The Doctor winced as Amy pinned the flower to his jacket with a safety pin. Her hands smoothed over the crease the pin made before flattening against the Doctor's chest—right over his twin hearts. "You say her name in your sleep sometimes. On the TARDIS, we could hear you crying."

He covered her hands with his and squeezed her fingers. "I'm sorry—" he whispered.

She shushed him. "Don't be stupid."

When they finally made it inside the house for tea, Rory scolded the two of them for taking so long. Then, his gaze fell on the Doctor's rose, and he smiled.

So did Amy.

Even the Doctor, who could count on one hand the number of times he had felt truly content, couldn't stop the grin that turned the corners of his lips.


End file.
